


On the tenth night

by ruebellab



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, J/B friendly, Post-Quiet Isle, sneaky Sansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 03:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4247139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruebellab/pseuds/ruebellab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor tries to look out for his little bird but Sansa has her own ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the tenth night

**Author's Note:**

> unbetaed schmoopy smut I wrote when I was meant to be getting on with dating naked - hope its alright

The rain has soaked them through to the skin and nine days and nights of hard travel have left a chill in his bones and a stiffness in his bad leg that he’s not keen to admit to. This Sandor can live with, he’s easily seen worse, so it’s the hint of blue in her lips and the way she tries to hide the tremble in her hands that makes him insist they stop.  
  
The others, the Lannister lion and that bloody great wench, do not object. He’s still gruff with them, wary of their attention toward his little bird - but here, for once, they fight for the same thing, and he’s come to consider them both with a surprising respect.  
  
The four riders head down towards the flickering lights of a tiny village, just visible through the heavy rain. She says nothing, of course, she’s hardly spoken since they found her, but the blue of her eyes turns grateful at the at his insistence of a proper meal and a clean bed and he finds himself warmed from within at her simple glance.  
  
The inn is small but there’s a stable for their horses, a huge crackling fire in the great-room and most importantly, their gold is taken without question. The other travelers watch them as the lion asks the innkeeper for two rooms, and they lean this way and that to catch a glimpse under their rain soaked hoods. Sandor knows how odd their group must look - three of them large, heavily armed and formidable encircling a girl who moves with the grace of a queen. Curious or no, he knows there will be no trouble here tonight - none of these folk are keen to tempt his blade and fewer still are willing to risk another night out in the storm.  
  
The lion asks for their meals to be sent straight to the two rooms they’ve taken, and a bath in each as well and while he and the wench see to their horses, Sandor follows her up the narrow creaking stairway to their rooms.  
  
It’s been more than a week since they found her - the colour of her feathers may have changed along with the gilt of her cage and the bastard holding the key, but she had been just as much the trapped little bird with the bastard Baelish as she had been in Kings Landing.  
  
They’ve had little time to speak since, next to no time spent away from their companions, and though Sandor doesn’t know how, it feels as though a thousand words have passed between them through the simplest of touches and the way their eyes seem to find each others', lingering.  
  
Perhaps this is a good thing, he thinks, because if he’s honest, he still has not yet found his voice to tell her. He may not be a good man, but he is more at peace than he has ever been and for the moment, he is happy to take it as it is, knowing he has had a hand in her freedom and her safety.  
  
Sansa has all but abandoned her attempts to hide the shiver in her limbs as he points her to the door next to his own. He and the lion will share, and the women will take the other. With the briefest brush of her trembling fingertips to the back of his gloved hand, she steals away into the room barring the door behind her. From the other side he can hear the wet thud of her cloak as it hits the floorboards and the longing sigh as she sets eyes on the steaming bath.  
  
Sandor turns to his own room, and follows suit.  
  
. . .  
  
The luxury of it is positively obscene. The room, the bath - steaming water deep enough to sink up to his chest, a bed with clean linens and a tentative promise of a good night’s rest - simple pleasures hard won.  
  
He’s comfortable, eyes shut, head tilted against the rounded lip of the large metal tub, with nothing but his thoughts and the occasional crackle of the fire, but it makes him more uneasy than he’d like to admit.  
  
It had taken near on two years with the brown brothers for him to learn to calm his mind. Sandor had grown so accustomed to the thundering rage, gut wrenching guilt, mental admonition - the barrage of fruitless plans for revenge, it seemed to be all his mind had been made for. The same faces - his little bird, his sister, Gregor’s - the same screams of horror and pain, the same loss and failure - it was enough to drive a man crazy.  
  
Leaving it behind, finding this peace, grave by grave with each slice of his shovel and scoop of silty earth, it nearly did. But after all that, he’s still here. Damaged, certainly, but still here - and Gods be good, with a second chance.  
  
When he became hers, Sandor can’t say - but he’s hers as sure as he has strength to grip his sword and blood to shed with it. She deserves everything he has to give, however little that is - and instead of his harsh snarling words, his lust, his drunken terror, he’ll do right by her this time.  
  
No longer the frightened, beaten girl he had pressed himself upon in his darkest moment - who he had tried and failed to protect - Sansa is a woman grown now, her eyes turned steel from years of grief and hardship, and her body, her face so beautiful it makes him ache to look at her. But where he has shed his demons and calmed his rage - his desire for the girl has only increased.  
  
Sandor slides deeper into the tub, his knees raising farther up and out of the water and he places both large, rough hands safely on the tops of his muscular legs - away from budding temptation. His fingers rest on the unnatural dip of his thigh, evidence of the day the Hound died, and he traces the puckered scar in attempt to coax his thoughts away from the woman his little bird has become.  
  
His cock stirs against his thigh, practically begging for his grip, but he won’t.  
  
It’s not because Sandor hasn’t allowed her memory to fuel his deepest most depraved fantasies, and certainly not because the thought of her, at this moment, slipping naked, pale and goose-fleshed, from her bath to wrap herself in firs snugly in front of the fire doesn’t make him stiff with longing.  
  
No, the lion is due back at any moment - and whatever kind of goodwill has grown between the two of them, he rather thinks it does not extend to finding Sandor fucking his fist in bathwater meant to share.  
  
He’s just thinking of hauling himself out of the water when he hears the door open quite without the accompanying heavy footfalls of a man in armour. Without hesitation Sandor draws his sword from where he’d left it next to the tub, and half rising from the bath, he halts with a splash as he sets eyes on her face.  
  
"Sansa? Little bird?"  
  
She’s standing at the door, wearing a clean shift and wrapped in a heavy fur. She wears such a look of surprise, lips parted as though about to speak that he thinks she’s forgotten her words at the sight of him.  
  
And what a sight he must be, scarred and hairy, terrifying face and fearsome body, all the more frightening in the half light - like something out of a maiden’s nightmare, he imagines.  
  
"What is it - what’s happened?" He demands - he’s prepared to leap from the bath at her word but the little bird is gaping at him. "Speak woman!’  
  
"Brienne," Sansa says finally. “Lady Brienne has not yet returned, and I thought -“ she blinks hard before meeting his eyes, “I apologise for disturbing you but I thought it wiser not to be on my own.”  
  
Sandor drops his sword and returns to the still warm water. It’s suspicious, certainly - neither the lion nor the wench have returned, and where there hasn’t been a breath of trouble elsewhere, Sandor is averse to letting it go unchecked. The little bird is smart not to stay alone and unprotected for too long and he tells her so.  
  
“No mind, you were right to come,” he says, running a hand through his damp hair so that the long dark strands conceal the scarred half of his face once more. Perhaps if she can see less of him, she might feel more at ease. “They’ve had plenty time to see to the horses - something’s amiss.”  
  
Sansa clears her throat as though intending to reply, but she’s still watching him - in fact she seems unable to draw her eyes away from where he crouches in the tub. It must be a trick of the firelight, he thinks, because her pale cheeks appear flushed, and there’s something about the way she’s looking at him - something he recognises yet finds utterly unfamiliar.  
  
“I’m getting out,” he warns, rising again, water streaming down his hard muscled limbs.  
  
He doesn’t look to find out whether she’s turned away, and he snatches a dry cloth from a bench near the foot of the tub, drying himself neatly. Sandor won’t order her to look away, he’s no knight of the flowers, but he’ll leave that up to her.  
  
He won’t snarl vicious truths at her and force her to see beyond her foolish songs and he won’t demand she meet him eye to eye either - if he’s to do right by his little bird, then this time around is about helping her to make her own choices.  
  
It’s not as if she’ll be looking anyway.  
  
As he steps out, though, Sandor wraps the towel around his waist and where he’s not ashamed of himself - he’s never found fault when it comes to that particular part of his body, but there’s no sense in spooking her.  
  
A moment later he’s dressed in damp breeches and a tunic wetter and dirtier still. It’s a damn shame to put his filthy clothes on just out of a bath - but he won’t risk not going down to check on their companions and he isn't doing that in the nude. He shoves his feet into his boots and picks up his sword again, going to the door. The little bird has hardly moved, and when he walks to the door, she shifts aside a little to let him pass.  
  
He’s about to tell her to stay put, to bar the door and let no one in but him but what he sees stops him in his tracks. The glow of the fire catches copper and gold in her hair and he realises that for the first time since they left the Vale that a little of her natural colour has returned. By the Gods she is beautiful.  
  
“Stay here,” he barks, “bar the door, let no one in. I’ll be back.”  
  
-  
  
It’s only when Sandor is walking back up the stairs a short while later, that he understands what he found so familiar and yet so odd in the way that the little bird had looked at him. It’s an expression he’s seen on the faces of countess women and girls but until now he’s never seen it directed at him.  
  
Desire - she had looked at him with desire.  
  
He shakes his head as though he can’t quite believe it, but he knows it to be true. He raps his knuckles hard on the door and he hears her come to answer it.  
  
“Sandor?” She asks and the sound of her voice sends a shiver through him.  
  
“It’s me, open up.”  
  
He hears her fumble with the heavy plank and the door opens wide enough for him to enter and once inside he turns immediately to bar it again.  
  
“Where is Lady Brienne? Ser Jaime? Is everything alright?”  
  
He gives a snort of a laugh before crossing the room to the tub. With his back to her he peels off his damp dirty clothes and climbs back into the still warm water. He can feel her hovering by the door but he won’t dare to find out if she’s looking at him or not.  
  
“I’d say so,” he says evasively. “They’ll be occupied for some time I expect - you can stay here until then.”  
  
“Did you find them?” She presses unhelpfully.  
  
Sandor had found them alright - heard them well before he got a glimpse of something he’d rather not have seen. They had seen to the horses it seems, and then found an empty stall to take care of their own needs. He had suspected something more might be between the two of them, but the lion and the wench - that was about as likely as…   
  
“I found them,” he says reaching for the slice of soap on the bench. He scrubs himself thoroughly head to toe before sinking back a little to rinse the lather from his hair. Sandor looks up then and finds her once again, staring, chewing her lip, her eyes dark and heavy - hot and hungry. He can scarcely believe it.  
  
“Little bird,” he starts and she blinks first before meeting him eye to eye. “You’re going to boil this bath water if you keep that up.”  
  
He can see the flush that stains her cheeks even in the low flickering firelight - and unbelievably a second later, she smiles at him. Just a shy little smile as though she’s embarrassed at being caught, but not ashamed. She turns away then and walks to the bed, sitting on the edge with her hands clasped in her lap.  
  
“I had noticed - if need be, this bed is of a size we could share easily,” she says to her hands, chewing her lip once again. “I wouldn’t have you sleep on the floor on my account.”  
  
This has got to be some kind of cruel trick - perhaps another fever dream like those he’d had when the monks had treated his injuries. A moment ago he couldn’t believe his eyes and now his ears have failed him too.  
  
“I should hope it is,” Sandor says as he wrings the water from his hair and reaches for his towel to get out. She isn’t looking this time, and he does so drying himself quickly. “The lion and I had meant to take it both.”  
  
Neither of them had much liked the idea but it was far more appealing than sleeping on floorboards.  
  
“Then we shall have no trouble.”  
  
She slides atop the furs and lays back against a pillow. She combs a few stray strands of hair from her face before letting her hands rest lightly on her belly and they rise and fall with each breath.   
  
It’s a good thing he’s holding a towel because as he stands, staring at her in disbelief, his cock throbs against his leg, threatening to swell at the sight of her.  
  
“Will you come?” She asks, sounding so bloody innocent it makes him want to shout at her to stop.  
  
Instead, he holds his towel more firmly, looks into her eyes and says somewhere between anger and pleading “what do you mean by this?”  
  
She sits up again and slides off the bed, crossing the room to stand so near him he knows if he were a lesser man - a coward, he would have backed away.  
  
“Are you going to help me - or am I going to have to do this all myself?”  
  
“ _This_ again - what is this?” He says and he’s surprised at the anger in his voice. His body is tense and he hold himself so rigidly for fear of crossing an unseen line drawn between them.  
  
She’s eye level to his chest, and suddenly she places her hand there, over his heart, balancing herself as rises to her toes to place a kiss on the highest point of him she can reach. Her mouth brushes his throat, right where his pulse beats hard and fast against the skin.  
  
Unable to help himself, Sandor raises his hand to her hair just as she pulls away and he runs his thumb over her cheek in one rough swipe - it must be a dream, how could it be anything but a dream?  
  
The sound of her voice, the clean sweet smell of her hair and the warmth of her skin standing close as she is - she all around him and yet it isn't enough.  
  
His thumb traces her cheek and comes to rest on her mouth, feeling a hint of a smile there as though she thinks herself victorious.  
  
“We can begin slowly, if you wish,” she says as though she means to be kind.  
  
“Slowly,” Sandor repeats, his voice low and rough, hoping the word will reign in the quickening beat of his heart. She parts her lips then, placing a soft kiss against his thumb and the touch of her lips to his skin send a hot thrill through his blood directly to his cock. “This doesn’t feel like slow, little bird. I’ll ask you again, what do you mean to come of this?”  
  
He must ask and ask again until she tells him true.  
  
She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and because he can’t seem to help himself - and because he’s wanted to for so fucking long it’s almost shameful, Sandor strokes his knuckles along her jaw and down the delicate line of her throat. He follows the path made by her jutting collarbone to her shoulder where his hands stills.  
  
“I am not sure,” she says finally. “I can only hope, I suppose - I do not know about tomorrow, or the days to come but…”  
  
Sansa leans into him then, catching the hand on her shoulder and bringing it back to her face, nuzzling at his fingers, speaking against his skin.  
  
“I know what I want right now,” she finishes and her breath on his skin and suddenly she’s kissing his fingertips.  
  
He can hardly believe it - she can’t possibly… Though his brain is compounding a litany of reasons why this can’t happen his blood is running hot and his chest is constricting with the hot grip of lust.  
  
“Sansa,” he warns.  
  
Her kisses are soft and wet, trailing down over his broad palm and back and he’s begun to severely resent the part of his mind that wants desperately to slip a finger into her hot sweet mouth.She presses his hand to her cheek as she speaks and her voice has lost that teasing lilt.

“When I found you again, I hardly knew what to do with myself and since then I have not been able to stop thinking of this - of how I have wanted it, how I have held so tightly to your memory these past years. I hardly know what tomorrow will bring and I know not what you think of me truly - but I have wanted you.”  
  
Her statement takes him for yet another turn. He feels the flame of lust falter as he’s filled with another sensation just as complete though wholly untested. He can hardly fucking believe it - but by the Gods does he wants it to be true.  
  
Ignoring the fact there’s naught but a towel and a thin silk shift between them, he wraps his arms around her, gathering her up against his chest and buries his face in her hair. She pulls herself tightly against him and presses her cheek against his chest.  
  
“Fucking hells” he says into her hair, taking a deep breath of her honey warm scent. If she was expecting pretty words in return she’s come to the wrong man - but he holds her tighter still. If what his little bird has said is true, then what he has to give will be good enough.  
  
-  
  
After he had brought her into his arms he had held her so tightly as he had often dreamed of doing, and he had carried her to the bed where they had slept, wrapped up together in the warmth of the furs.  
  
It is by far some of the most restful sleep Sandor has ever had - never before has he slept in a woman’s arms and he’s surprised to find how very much his body has taken to having her close. Now that she’s here, he’s found that he can’t bring himself to let her go.  
  
And truth be told - that’s not all he wants.  
  
It’s more than that, he knows, the tangled mess of feelings that pull at his heart when he thinks of his little bird is enough to rightly terrify him, but it does feel right - and he’s willing to see where that leads them.  
  
Lying with her in his arms, cradled against his chest and murmuring softly in her sleep, Sandor watches the raindrops spatter against the dirty windowpane, catching the light of the dying fire and standing out against the dark night sky. Here - for a little while longer, they can pretend there isn’t a world of mess awaiting them.  
  
When she stirs, tilting her head into the way he strokes her hair, he brings the good side of face down to meet hers so that his lips brush her cheek. Gods, he wants to kiss her - but bugger him if he has the faintest idea how.  
  
Sandor is no stranger to fucking - whores and nothing-girls who would take his coin and spread their legs, but he has never once wanted anything more than a tight cunt to sheath himself in and their mouths were never good for anything more than sucking him off. He has never wanted to kiss a woman before now.  
  
Sansa lifts her head a little to look into his eyes, and it almost as if he’s surprised that she looks at him without a trace of revulsion. Her eyes are heavy lidded and her smile is a slow tempting curve.  
  
“Will you finish that thought, or might I go back to sleep?” She teases, trailing her hand featherlight down his side.  
  
“Gods forbid I’m disturbing you,” he says, his voice deep and gravelly, mouth twitching as though to return her smile.  
  
“You could make it worthwhile,” she says, sliding a few inches up his body so they’re almost eye to eye.  
  
“Could I now?”  
  
Sansa nods, nudging at him nose to nose and though their lips come only a breath apart, he’s hesitant to make this final leap.  
  
She seems to read it on him, feels his hesitancy mingled with the desire that’s building deep in his chest and rolling off him in waves and so she presses forward, kissing first his jaw, his brow, the corner of his mouth before repeating each action on his ruined side.  
  
The feeling of it is almost too much. When his aching body, craving more of her, all of her, can take the delicacy of her touch no more, he grasps her face and meets her mouth to mouth.  
  
It’s not skilled or gentle - however sensible it would have been to ease sweetly into this new territory and he’s afraid for a moment it might overwhelm him, starved for so long. Their lips come together hungrily and he breathes her in, lost in the taste of her tongue against his and the slip of her hand on his back.  
  
He’s just, with some difficulty, pushing away thoughts of rolling her willing little body against the furs and fucking her soundly - even now he will not dare press this farther than she says so, when they’re interrupted by a sharp knock against the heavy wooden door.  
  
Curse them, whoever it is.  
  
But the spell doesn’t break, she simply pulls back to look at him smiling.  
  
“Are you going to answer?”  
  
“I was going to ignore it - for all they know I’m passed out drunk, dead to the world.”  
  
The knocking comes again, more insistent and this time, he can hear the wench’s voice from the other side of the door. The last fucking thing he wants is to pull away from her, not when they’ve only just begun.  
  
“Tell her all is well and send her away - please?" She says before kissing him once more, this time soft and gentle - a sweet promise that this won't end here.  
  
Sandor growls low in his throat before reaching for the discarded towel and standing from the bed. He catches her eyeing his half hard cock, jutting up under the cover of the towel and his jaw sets as she bites her lip. He adjusts himself and takes a few steps toward the door.  
  
It would haven been nice to pretend for a little while longer, and as soon as that door is opened the world will find them again.  
  
“What?”  
  
He hears Sansa behind him, sinking into the bed and pull as he opens the door just a crack, keeping the towel firmly in place around his waist.  
  
The wench looks worried.  
  
"Where is Lady Sansa? She is not in our room and the bed has not been slept in.”  
  
There is straw in the wench's hair, her cheeks are flushed and he can see streaks of red just below the neck of her tunic - beard rash he thinks, but he’s not going to ask to find out. Sandor shoots a look over his shoulder at the little bird in his bed.  
  
"It's alright, Brienne,” Sansa calls to the door. "I'm here."  
  
He pulls the door a little wider and he can't help but smirk as the wench's eyes jump from Sansa's sleep mussed hair to his very naked torso and the cloth at his waist. A perfect O of surprise forms on her face at the sight but Sansa gives a shy sort of giggle and he's struck with just how happy she sounds.  
  
“Oh, Lady Sansa you’re -”  
  
Sandor leans on the doorframe as Sansa slides from the bed to join them at the door. He growls again, annoyed even as she slides her warm hand over his back and leans into his side. Now that they have an audience, he doesn’t feel quite as comfortable with her touch, but Sandor doesn’t shrug her off. He’ll be damned lucky to get used to this.  
  
“I will be spending the rest of the night here,” Sansa says confidently, and he feels a swell of pride that she’s not done with him yet.  
  
“I, uh - I will inform Ser Jaime that you are well attended. Goodnight, then.”   
  
Before the door is closed behind the wench, Sansa says, “goodnight - and please, give Ser Jaime my thanks.”  
  
Brienne looks sharply over her shoulder but a second later, she smiles weakly and nods.  
  
“Your thanks?” Sandor asks when the door is shut and barred again. He’s not one to pry, but he suddenly suspects there is a connection between Sansa coming to him tonight and where he had found the lion and the wench earlier. He closes the distance between them, one hand finding her waist, the other holding tight to his towel.   
  
“Oh nothing - I just, well… I might have suggested to Ser Jaime that tonight might be the night he be honest with Brienne about his feelings - though I do confess I had my own motives beyond helping our friends. I was rather hoping to share my bed with someone else tonight.”  
  
Sansa leans into him then, pressing her chest against his and looking up at him with a mixture of reassurance and challenge and he can’t fucking believe it - she planned the whole thing.  
  
“Suddenly so sure of yourself - just who did you have in mind?”  
  
“Oh I don't know”' Sansa says pulling away and dropping onto the bed, keeping his hand in hers to pull him close between her knees. “Shall I present my company to one of the drunken sellswords downstairs - or perhaps the innkeeper’s boy?”  
  
He gives low rumbling laugh, free hand finding her hair and pushing it off her shoulder, away from her face.  
  
“Not a one of them could keep up with you, little bird - and I’d run them through for even trying.”  
  
“Do you have a better offer for me then?”  
  
Sandor doesn’t really mean to do it then, but the taunt in her voice, the thought of another man touching her, even looking at her - the feel of her skin, her fingers wrapped tight around his - it’s everything he will ever need, her - she is it, and so he presses forward sinking her back down onto the bed.  
  
Recovered from the brief interruption, his cock rubs against her thigh, only a few layers of cloth between them, begging to find home.  
  
“I just might,” he breathes against her neck. Sansa shivers, laying back to pull her shift up and over her head, tossing it to the floor. Her hands find his shoulders, nails curling in slightly, pulling him back to her.  
  
“Please,” she says softly, unexpectedly sweet and again he has no pretty words to answer her though his heart swells with - love? Is it? Gods it very well could be - but he can’t, he won’t think on that just now, he pushes forward and kisses her deeply.  
  
It will take years, he thinks, more years than he has left, to get over the sheer bliss of her taste. The feel of her lips, her little breath of a moan, the way her hand slides across his back and up his neck, tugging at his hair. When Sansa pulls back, the light in her eyes is so bright it’s almost too much for him to bear, and he knows in that moment, that some how, it’s love for her too. Neither of them are ready to say so, they may never be - but it’s there, burning.  
  
“Is this going the way I think it is, little bird?”  
  
Sansa scoots a little back up onto the bed, making room for him and he pulls up next to her, propped on one elbow. There’s just enough light in the room to highlight the dip and curve of her body - small rose tipped breasts, slight hips, she is so beautiful to him.  
  
“I am afraid I am quite unpracticed in the act, but I was hoping my meaning would be clear,” she says with a smile.  
  
Bloody hells - first Joffrey, then the imp and then that buggering littlefucker, and she has survived them all still a maid. Why Sansa would choose to waste herself on him, Sandor does not know - but the choice is hers afterall and Sandor is beyond arguing with her.  
  
“You are speaking to the man who spent two years on the Quiet Isle,” he flicks his eyes downward and her gaze follows, settling on his erection. “I’m impressed it hasn’t fallen off from disuse.”  
  
Sansa doesn’t laugh - he’s caught her attention elsewhere, and she reaches between them, ghosting her fingertips over his hip before grasping his cock full in a gentle but firm grip. He drops his head, groaning deeply, hips pushing forward of their own volition.  
  
“Am I right to say that I want you - that I want all of you? Is that too much?”  
  
She shakes her head, drawing her fist slowly up his length, playing her thumb in the bead of fluid she finds at the tip. She’s going to kill him and oh what a sweet death it will be.  
  
“If you did not,” she says, pulling him closer and brushing her mouth over his jaw, “I would be sorely disappointed.”  
  
His fingers dig into her side as she strokes him and he brings their lips together hard. With her hand trapped between them, Sandor pulls up over her, pushing her back into the bed and brings his hand to meet hers between them.  
  
The feeling of her, the open cradle of her hips, the beautiful way they seem to fit together makes his belly tighten and his cock throb hot and wanting. Sandor passes his hand roughly over her chest and follows with his mouth, laying kisses across her breasts and hoping earnestly that he’s not too clumsy or too crude. His hand stills when he reaches the soft copper curls that grow between her thighs.  
  
“I never thought this would ever…” he trails off as she tilts her hips, encouraging his fingers to slip past her folds. He finds her warm and oh so wet and he can’t help himself but to play a little, teasing, sliding - hoping to find something she likes.  
  
“Really?” Sansa says breathlessly as he dips his fingers into her. “I think about you naked all the time.”  
  
Sandor can’t help but feel pleased with himself at the warm flush that’s risen across her chest, the way her breathing comes quick and laboured. Sansa gasps when he slides his fingers into her fully, lowering his mouth to suck at her collarbone, her shoulder, the delicate curve of her neck and she arches into him, digging her nails into his back.  
  
He pulls his fingers from her, twisting slightly, stretching gently, wondering how he will ever manage not to hurt her when the time comes, before he slides back in. She’s so tight - he’s never felt anything like it and his cock gives another heavy throb at the thought.  
  
“Ah well - to that I am guilty but I never thought that you and I…” Sandor tries again and fails, instead he kisses her full and wet and she responds hungrily.  
  
Sansa is reaching for him again and he can feel her intent as her soft slender fingers touches the coarse hair at his groin, and further, to wrap around him once more.  
  
“And yet here we are,” she says breaking the kiss and looking into his eyes, resting her hand on his ruined cheek.  
  
Sandor brings his hand up to touch her lips with damp fingers, and he groans in a low breath when she opens her mouth to him, tasting herself on his skin. It is almost too much, the slip of her tongue that sends a rush of desire through him so strong that he pulls up to settle his hips between hers. Sansa is guiding him home though, he can feel it - the pull of her heart, that light in her eyes and the soft tug of her hand that brings his cock to nudge between her folds.  
  
“Sandor, I -” she starts, and though she is too distracted to finish her thought, Sandor knows she’s is trying to place words to name that building sensation of light and home and heart and everything.  
  
“I know, little bird,” he says before kissing her, tilting his hips so that he’s a breath away from sinking in and he feels her nod, biting at his lip before he pushes forward - and then he’s there.  
  
Feeling her like this, her hands, her mouth and way the that the tight heat of her core pulls at his cock - and the fact that he feels its nearly too much and he stills himself, allowing them both time to adjust. He's thick and so painfully hard inside her but his body begs to move. He'll wait for her - he's waited this long, what are another few seconds?  
  
“Does it hurt you?” Sandor asks - he knows it must.  
  
“Only a little,” she says but her hips are moving just so, and he takes the invitation to pull out and then to push back in, ever so slowly. The little moan she makes is the sweetest thing he’s ever heard and he wants to hear it again - he’ll do anything to hear it again so he beings to move.   
  
After a moment he feels her relax, and then she is breathing hard against his mouth. Gods it’s been a long time - not since well before the brown brothers has he had more than his fist for fucking, but with her help, the crush of their hips together, that delicious slide of body on body, he finds his rhythm.   
  
It’s slower than he’d like - but Sandor won’t risk hurting her and if he’s lucky there will be time and time again to practice. He knows she must feel some discomfort still - he knows that there is a lot of him to take but she bears it willingly, eagerly.  
  
Pushing up on his knees, Sandor pulls her with him so that she straddles his lap, and he watches her face split with surprise at the pleasure she finds as he guides her up and down.  
  
“Is it good?” He asks, transfixed by her features, glowing in the low light. He settles his hand at her hip, helping her to rock against him, deep and deeper still, while the other passes up over her breasts. His voice seems far away - hells the whole world seems far away and he can feel it building, the tightness in his balls, the clench of his belly.  
  
The hand that had been roughing her breasts falls between them but he takes a second to watch himself disappear into her before he finds her with his fingers, taking care to rub her gently - this is something he has only heard of but never bothered with before. The his surprise - his relief, his delight, she whimpers and pushes against him as though seeking more.  
  
“Sansa - little bird,” he says, his voice is hard with heavy breath. His jaw sets, the muscles in his back and legs tensing - he’s so close breaking. “I need to - I’m going to -”  
  
“Yes,” she manages between breaths, and that is enough.  
  
Sandor growls, mouth against her shoulder, holding her tight to his chest and thrusting deeply once, twice, three times before he pushes Sansa back against the bed, slipping his cock from her and watching the milky ropes of his seed cover her belly.  
  
When Sandor does move, drawing himself away and leaving a damp sticky mess between them, he finds her looking at him and there's an open sweetness written on her face, so honest and so pure, for a moment he can hardly believe he could be the cause.  
  
She smiles at him, and he knows - certain as he lives and breathes, she must see it in his face too.  
  
Love.  
  
It isn’t the right time, it’s certainly the wrong place, and it would almost definitely make the world of hell and fire, war and winter on the other side of the door infinitely worse, but Gods help him if this isn't exactly what he wants.  
  
\- - -  
  



End file.
